The Art Of Deception
by Kyla45
Summary: But then, there was only ever one person who could see through him no matter what. Oneshot. Rukia & Ichigo


It was an art. It was a skill that needed to be honed and refined for it to be of any use.

It was an art. While painting, your brush could never falter, or the picture would be ruined completely.

It was an art. If you relied on the security of a dark canvas, you could never stop the violent thrashes of the black-stained brush, in fear of letting the light seep through.

It was an art.

The art of deception.

* * *

Inside his body a maelstrom continued endlessly. The turmoil was devastating, violently engulfing his organs, corrupting his veins and the blood that flowed through them, and causing invisible breaks to his bones.

And his heart, the ugly organ that resembled nothing of the exploited Valentine gimmick, was slowly filling with an icy steel liquid. And, like water, the icy steel hardened further; it solidified.

It was a curious thing that this was going on inside of him, because on the outside he appeared...normal. Unaffected. Maybe even semi-happy, by his standards of course.

A worried Inoue used to gaze at him for long periods of time. She always asked him to confide in her, telling him it would be okay, and that maybe he should just talk about it.

He always smiled at her, and told her he was fine. He made sure that the smile was genuine; all he had to do was think of _her_ smiling face.

Soon enough, Inoue stopped prying. She believed he was really alright, and he did nothing to discourage her thoughts. He joked around with her, and treated her with the same tender friendship he used to.

After _that_, he hadn't even gotten angry, he hadn't gotten sad. He hadn't cried. He wasn't sure he'd done anything. Soon he perfected what had always been a tool to him before. He acted as he always had, adding the smiles in whenever he needed to assure. Because really, smiling wasn't something he did often and when he did, everyone assumed he was truly happy. It was so _easy_.

He deceived Inoue easily. Maybe it was the ridiculous infatuation – love – she felt for him, but within a matter of days he had erased her doubt.

His mask of indifference that he'd built up over the years was a gift to him after _that_. All he had to do was perfect the mask, so that no one could see through it. He mastered the skill, and he then applied it with his friends. Even they, the people he'd allowed to get close to him, noticed nothing.

But he couldn't blame them; he _was_ a master of deceiving now. He didn't want their useless pity, or prejudiced treatments. In truth he didn't really want anything. Friends, education, material possessions; he wanted nothing. But he kept it all up because he had to keep deceiving everyone.

He took pride in the fact that no one, not even his own father, could see through the act. It became somewhat of a sick game for him, and he concentrated whole heatedly on winning. And he was winning. He always won.

He deceived even his most perceptive friends, he deceived even his most loving friends. He deceived his own blood-line.

Now he didn't have to worry about prodding questions and discussions of _emotions_. Hell, he didn't have to worry about emotions anymore, because unless he wanted them to be displayed, they weren't.

Naturally, the inner turmoil swirling in the very depths of his being would _never_ be shown, never be known to anyone. He had perfected this art so easily, it was effortless now.

A few days ago Rukia had come back. She said it was only for a visit, and he acted as he normally would; he scoffed and asked when she'd be leaving.

Surprisingly, she said nothing of _that_ incident. He had thought she had rushed back to be the comforting friend so many before her had attempted to be. But she acted completely normal around him, and though he certainly didn't let it show, he was grateful.

Two days after Rukia had settled down in his closet, he was making his daily 3AM visit. Even standing there alone, he didn't let his deceiving mask slip even an inch.

" You know, I'd say I was sorry, but I'm not," came her voice from behind him.

He huffed and asked what she was talking about, what she was doing here. Though, inside, he was wishing she would leave. For the first time, it took effort to keep up the deceiving persona. She was unnerving him.

" About your sister, her death. I'm not sorry. I'm devastated, Ichigo."

" You are, are you?" He didn't avert his gaze from _her_ grave.

" I am," she replied, in that lovely confident voice he had found himself missing as much as his dear sister. " And so are you."

" And when did you start using big words like 'devastated,' idiot?"

He heard her footsteps from behind him. She came to be standing beside him, and he felt something then. He didn't know what it was...but it felt strange.

" Ichigo, you can stop that now. You big idiot. You really are horrible at hiding things – you always have been."

He felt like a dam was straining to be freed within himself.

" What are you talking about?" he grumbled.

" Ichigo," she stepped in front of him and took his hand. She stared into his eyes intensely, and he saw no pity there, no concern, just determination. " You suck at acting."

They were not eloquent words, but he felt the barriers he'd perfected crumbling down. Her hand gripping his own was warm, so warm.

His shoulders sagged, his head bowed low, and his face was alive with a sadness he had never shown.

" Do I really?" he asked through – to his horror – quivering lips. How was it that she could come, and call him on his deception so quickly when the people he lived with and saw everyday were oblivious?

" Yes."

Suddenly, he gripped her hand a little too tightly, but she showed no sign of minding. She stepped to his side once again, and they both looked upon the grave of his dead sister.

Her hand in his was the most comforting thing in the world. He actually felt his personal maelstrom slowing down, allowing him time to feel, to think.

The art he'd perfected wasn't so perfect. The grief he'd refused to experience was seeping out of him. He couldn't remember a time when he had to fight so hard not to cry. His knuckles turned white as he held onto the small girl's hand.

" Rukia," he whispered.

" Yeah."

" Rukia." he said slowly. He didn't know why, but he said her name over and over again.

" Ichigo?"

He just squeezed her hand in response.

" We'll eat a whole bucket of ice cream."

He didn't know why, but he wanted to cry. He almost did. His vice like grip slackened on her hand.

With Rukia by his side he felt some of the icy steel lodged into his heart actually melting. He felt comforted. He felt...happy.

" Rukia," he said her name again, endearingly, with emotions threatening to overflow from every pore of his body.

His black paint brush stopped its torturous strokes. Now the light known as Rukia was covering his canvas in sloppy, messy, loving paint, and nothing could have been more beautiful to him.

* * *

Uh...this is so random. The writing seems stiff to me, though I meant it to be written like that...kind of...ugh...I don't know...what did you think? Tell me?

Mucho love!


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